


Hello

by There_lies_my_sanity



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Destiny, Gen, He comes back, Merlin Dies (Merlin), Merlin deserves better, One Shot, The Old Religion (Merlin), all is well, be one with the earth, but that's not important or focused on at all really, magic is a little bit sentient?, moss - Freeform, or maybe that's just mother earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25705108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/There_lies_my_sanity/pseuds/There_lies_my_sanity
Summary: When Merlin wakes up, he feels more than he's ever felt before, and almost looses himself to the Earth.(Moss blooms on his collarbone.)
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	Hello

When Merlin wakes from his first death, the air tastes like damp stone and blood.

This is strange, because he’s in the middle of the woods, and it was blunt force trauma that did him in, so he’s not bleeding too much. He’s got bigger things to think about, though - like the will-o'-the-wisp hovering at the tip of his nose, the growing awareness of dark, rich earth and empty water and stone beneath him. Like the thrumming of life around him, in the branches of trees and among the fallen leaves and from the trees themselves, too, gold and green and brown. Like the hyper-sensitivity of his too-pale skin, every faint breeze the cold, flat edge of a knife, caressing, whispering in his ears. 

_Hello_ , says the world, _hello_.

_Hello_ , Merlin whispers back, without moving his lips or taking a breath. In fact, he hasn’t taken a breath in...quite a while.

Around him, the world erupts in color and wonder, in joy, in victory. _Hello!_ chime the winds and the rattling leaves and the slow-growing trees and the brambles and bushes and beetles and dewdrops and -

Merlin gasps, chokes on it, covers his ears but the noise is more inside him than outside and it doesn’t do much good. His fingertips burn with the meager warmth of his skin, his thighs prickle and his feet ache where they touch the ground, everything so - so - so _much,_ he _can’t_ , he - 

The will-o’-the-wisp lets out a bright, echoing glimmer of a sound, concerned, touches his nose with tiny fire-hands. His eyes shoot open, and the world is gold and brass.

There’s a stream not too far away, trickling incessantly. There’s a bit of moss on his arm that takes root and grows all the way down to his hand, soaking in the magic that seeps off him in streamers and waves. He strokes it absentmindedly, thousands of little gleaming lives born just like that. A dead leaf crunches with a shift of his toes. A shiny-backed beetle makes its way up his heel, his ankle, his leg, to rest on his knee and rustle its wings at him. It greets him with a rasping murmur, as do the rest of the insects and spiders among the soil and tree roots. 

The tree he’s propped up against, an ancient rowan, sighs like a fond old grandfather and softens its bark, urges its roots and the brambles that live among said roots to cradle him.

A thorny stem brakes under his trembling fingers. He is greeted with yellow-green sap and thorns that press but don’t puncture and forgiveness. He mends it with a touch, a thought.

The very air around him is alive. He tastes iron and storm dust.

There is a collection of mushrooms by his hips. They creep closer, and he encourages them to climb into his lap as one might a strange-but-not-feral cat. They accept his invitation and make a home of his hipbone, creep around his back and mark out his spine. Moss blossoms on his collarbone.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, only that the earth welcomes him home like a long-lost child. Clover sprouts between his fingers. A butterfly begins to weave her cocoon in the nape of his neck. Eventually, the will-o'-the-wisp grows bored and leaves, though not without a soft goodbye and more gold than blue in its flames.

He closes his eyes. He is content. This is where he’s meant to be, part of the land, one with the life all around him. Why would he ever be anything else?

...why would he even think to ask that, when this is all he’s ever been? Warm sun twining through the uppermost leaves of the trees, cool mist and damp soil, the beating heart of the birds and squirrels and one curious rabbit snuffling at his wrist. He is the lifeblood of this land.

...right?

Why does that thought feel wrong? Like there’s something more than the turn of the earth and the will of the breeze, something important. A task, a mission, a destiny?

More than that, there was a someone separate-from-the-earth, a consciousness beyond mere awareness. This is not everything, he’s sure of it. 

_Are you sure?_ Murmurs the earth, slow, curious, regretful. _Must there be more than this, young one?_

And he - he, _Merlin,_ that’s who he is separate-from-the-earth - he might have said no, because this feels so much better than anything he’s felt before. Any worry or pain is distant; there is no need for him to be anything more than peaceful, content.

He might have, but something in his bones says _no_ , says _there’s more than you, there’s more than this._

Something in his bones says, _get up_.

_Get up?_ Up, like the reaching branches and the piled earth-stone and the sun and moon and stars. Like clouds and birds and raindrops before they fall. _Up?_

_Up. Stand_. 

_Huh?_

_Gather back your magic, brace yourself with bone and blood. Push against the earth and rise. Stand. Leave._

_Why?_

Because he is Merlin, separate-but-part-of-the-earth, one-with-magic, but that’s not everything. He is also Merlin, separate-but-part-of-

What? Part of _what?_

Destiny. A task, a mission, a -

hope. Pain, and worry, but love and hope, too. Something that’s gold but not magic, not life - fur. No, hair? Golden hair and blue-as-sky eyes and a scowl and a _Mer-lin_ that’s exasperated and fond at the same time, that cares for him differently than the mother earth or the lifeblood magic but deeply all the same.  
Deep red, and glimmering gold, sunshine and steel and fate. A dragon and a castle and a mentor and a mother and a friend, or two, or three, or more. He is part of this, too. Part of _Arthur._

_How could I ever forget?_

He knows how, and he feels guilt. He forgets so easily because it’s hard, and it hurts. Because he feels so alone being part-but-separate, because he so often feels needed but unwanted. The earth wants him. The moss and soil and beetle and butterfly want him. They don’t need him, but he is welcome here. 

He is not welcome where he needs to go. It is altogether possible he never will be, not truly. Not before his kin are accepted, not after the lies and betrayal. 

_Arthur needs me._

Merlin coaxes the moss and brambles and fungi off. delicately scrapes away soil. He encourages the butterfly to break from her cocoon, wings strong and golden. He places each bug carefully to the side and thanks the tree for its generosity and care. The crystals deep under the surface glimmer their goodbyes, and the spirits of the wood give him their blessings. He is always welcome here. He whispers to the wind, and it gleefully points the way home. 

And he wonders, for the first time, what the _hell_ just happened. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...I'm not entirely certain what this is. But hey! I hope you enjoyed it anyway! feel free and encouraged to drop a comment/kudos!
> 
> stay safe out there folks :-)


End file.
